


Love Me Do

by Terribledactyl



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: 1969, 60's, Abuse, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Beards (Relationships), Cold War, Emotional Manipulation, F/F, Fluff, Gay as hell, Homophobia, M/M, QP Hera and Eiffel, Queerplatonic Relationships, Racism, Slow Burn, Space Race, Trigger warnings:, more to be added - Freeform, people definitely die
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 07:57:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6846094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terribledactyl/pseuds/Terribledactyl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eiffel was the moon. He was distant and bright and made of hope, constantly haunting Hilbert's dreams. And if Eiffel was the moon, then Hilbert was human- caught in an endless, impossible desire that could only end in pain. He could never dream of coming close to Eiffel's brilliance.<br/>It was 1969 when man first touched the moon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scipiocipher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scipiocipher/gifts).



> This fic is gonna get intense later. And sufferish. And basically don't say I didn't warn you ahead of time.  
> I'll add trigger/content warnings before every chapter that might include one, with specific warnings in the end notes.  
> Today's Friendly Warnings Include:  
> -Blatant Racism

           The notice that sat on Hilbert’s desk was just as polite as the last one he had received. It informed him succinctly of his immediate termination, typed and clinical and professional. He could handle that. What he found testing was the way the handwritten word in thick, red ink seemed to be accusing him of something. **_Communist._**

           Perhaps, a few legal name changes ago, he would have burst into tears, or a loud tirade on the prejudices in the company, or maybe both. Hilbert chose instead to drum his fingers rhythmically on his desk.

           “You are mistaken,” he hummed. “This is a notice of termination for Dmitri Volodin on the grounds of communist affiliations. I am neither Dmitri nor communist.”

           “You’re a commie, plain as day,” the other man snapped. He seemed to be running sheerly on nerves- probably not healthy. “Innocent men don’t change their names, Volodin.”

           “I am not a communist,” Hilbert repeated. “I changed my name _legally_ when I immigrated here- again, _legally_. I have not been Dmitri Volodin in a long time. When I left Volograd, he stayed behind. I have done nothing wrong."

           “You send money to a communist every paycheck.” Hilbert abandoned his rhythm to clench his fists.

           “My sister is sick,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Is not like she has a choice in being communist; she wouldn’t survive the trip. Medicine is expensive.”

           “We can’t have a commie on staff, you know how it is,” the other man said, his tone dangerously close to squeaking. He was _afraid_ of Hilbert, afraid of his accent and glare and name. Hilbert had a bad habit of exploiting fears.

           “How it is,” he growled, thickening his accent intentionally. “How it is, _mudak_ , is that you and your company are willing to drop your best scientist because he has family in Soviet Union.” He rose from his desk to tower over the other man.

           “How it is,” he continued, his voice remaining threateningly low, “Is that I had to change my name so I could get job, because I thought it was small price to pay for a chance in the land of opportunity. If a name and a dying sister are all it takes for you to think I am communist spy, then I don’t want to work for you. How it is _my ass_.”

           Hilbert left the building, followed by the terrified gazes of his ex-coworkers and boss.

           Sundown and Willow Street housed an ink refinery plant and a closed storefront. Squeezed between the two like an afterthought was a low income apartment complex, which somehow managed to look more run-down than the buildings surrounding it. On the seventh floor there were twelve narrow apartments, but only two of any significance.

           Hilbert’s apartment was clinically bare. A twin bed shoved as close to the wall as possible, hardly slept in and immaculate, a kitchenette equally unused off to the side of the room, a bookshelf covered in a few worn scientific texts, a wooden table meant for food overtaken by a microscope and equally complex scientific instruments- everything he owned could be mentioned in a simple passing comment if he had ever been so inclined, though he was never the sort to enter a conversation without purpose.

He muttered angrily under his breath as he forced open the door to his pitifully empty apartment. It was nearing time to move again; there weren’t many jobs left that he hadn’t been fired from yet.

_Not long ago, he had looked upon the apartment and seen a blank canvas. He had one box of things clutched to his chest. A few short years and he would be able to pay off his sister’s medical bills, maybe even afford to fly her to America with him, and they wouldn’t have to worry about a thing. He could be a renowned scientist in America- the very idea was so delightfully foreign, it sent chills down his spine. America had a future for him._

Such memories were childish. _He_ was childish. No country, no matter how affluent, could plausibly hand a perfect life to him on a platter. Living in America, simply living and nothing more, took work.

“I hate America,” he murmured. His eyes darted to the window, then to the door. No one came.

“I hate America,” he repeated, raising his voice. He kicked the bed and threw a pillow across the room.

“I HATE AMERICA!” He shrieked. “I HATE AMERICA AND AMERICANS AND THEIR GODDAMN ANTHEM, AND I HATE ITS HYPOCRACY AND I HATE IT, I HATE IT ALL!” His heart pounded wildly, ferociously, like he had not allowed it to in a long time. Anger felt damn good.

The apartment was quiet, filled only with Hilbert’s heavy breathing. He would, at the very least, avoid the indignity of crying. Low voices from the apartment next door brought him back to reality. Someone had heard. The sound of a phone being dialled, a man quickly muttering something indecipherable, _Hilbert swore the man said something about his apartment and oh god this was where it would all end_ , the phone clicking back onto the wall.

Hilbert tried to remember anything to do with the neighbors against the thin wall. A man with messy hair and a charming smile lived there with his wife, a darling little thing with skin darker than calla lilies and an intelligent gaze. An interracial couple. He always found it odd that they never held hands when they went out.

Hilbert let out a shaky breath. He was such a fool. He knew he would somehow mess it up, make the neighbors afraid enough to call the police. Maybe he could move in with his sister- no, she was in the hospital.

_Calm down. Deep breaths. They can’t send me back if they don’t catch me._

Hilbert began to hurriedly throw his few belongings into a box. He would have to leave either the microscope or his books. As he deliberated, the doorbell rang. Did the police ring the doorbell? No, they kicked down doors and sent anyone inside off to prison without hesitation. Or was that Volograd?

The doorbell rang once more and the footsteps receded. His apartment was quiet again. Hilbert cracked the door open to see absolutely no one. Against his better judgement, he opened the door completely and caught sight of a pizza on his doorstep. He carefully picked it up and examined the note pasted on the cardboard.

_America sucks, pal. Sorry you lost your job again- Hera says it was only a matter of time before you blew up. Hope you find work soon!_

_-Doug Eiffel from next door_

           Hilbert looked from the pizza to the apartment door next to him. It took a minute for the gesture to take root. He wasn’t in trouble. People existed that didn’t think of him in total disgust. There would be food on the table. _He wasn’t in trouble._

           His mind automatically switched to the logic of it all: he would need to at least tell them thank you, a social situation he didn’t look forward to, possibly return the favor with a gift of his own, pick a new town with new jobs to move to, formally pack his things…

           He closed the door and sat on the edge of his bed with the pizza. Maybe the moving preparations could wait until after he spoke with the Eiffels. I _will have to leave eventually_ , he mused as he took a warm bite of pizza, _but it can wait._


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter the second apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No warnings for this one! Unless lowkey gay as fuck is a warning, in which case, you've been warned.

The second apartment was a ray of sunlight. Everything was bright and decorative, cheerful and alive. Two twin beds were placed opposite of each other with a window in between, one neatly tucked and the other a complete disaster. The half of the room bearing the messy bed was no better organized, with posters slapped lazily on the wall and piles of clothes strewn about, and the other side was neatly decorated with paintings. A desk held piles of papers, books, and a few pens. The kitchen was kept clean and organized.

Doug and Hera Eiffel, the couple inhabiting the apartment, were eccentric, to say the least. Eiffel was hardly home, and even when he was, he was somewhere else entirely most of the time. Whenever Hera asked, he shrugged and said he was working. It never really looked like work, but that was none of Hera’s business. If Eiffel’s work looked like reading pulp fiction and scribbling in the margins, well, at least he was being paid to do that.

Hera didn’t work, but she wasn’t a stay-at-home, cookie cutter wife, either. Some days she would read at the library, others she might be found visiting a museum, still others she would frequent the park. Every now and again, she would go on a date, and then she was all gold earrings and flowing skirts and soft lips and tantalizing stares that drew people into the light of her presence like moths to a flame.

Hera was bent over the mirror fiddling with her jewelry when her husband burst through the door.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called. “Fun fact of the day?”

“The ears of a cricket are located on their legs, just below the knee,” Hera automatically stated.

“Sounds disgusting.” He slipped off his coat and hung it up.

“I’m sure you’re equally disgusting to them,” she shot back. “Ears on the face? Scruffy as all get out? And it’s a wonder anything on the planet but me thinks your ever-so-slightly crooked nose is cute.” Eiffel rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, and you’re a literal goddess, oh great Hera,” he joked. “Any plans for dinner, Your Grace?”

“You’re on your own, Doug,” she replied, straightening her spine and beaming from ear to ear. “I have a date.”

“Oh.” Eiffel’s bright smile shifted to a sly grin. “Who’s the girl?”

“You wouldn’t know her,” she hummed, straightening her collar.

“Try me,” Eiffel combatted. Hera looked down at the floor, lips upturned slightly.

“Alana Maxwell.”

When Hera blushed, it brought out the natural rose of her cheeks- a subtle change that only those most familiar with her would notice.

“She’s got this really nice blonde hair that looks like woven gold in the sunlight and when she smiles it always looks like she just won a thousand dollars and she smells like rhododendrons.”

“Maxwell goes to work with me, actually,” Eiffel said. “Sweet girl; you two deserve each other. Didn’t know she was a lesbian.”

“Bi, actually,” Hera corrected. She brushed her skirt a little. “Do I look alright?”

Before Eiffel could answer, a scream distracted them. They both looked at the wall, only slightly nervous.

“Is that… what’s his name…?” Hera glanced at Eiffel.

“Alexander Hilbert?” Eiffel supplied quickly.

“Yeah…”

Eiffel could hear some of what their neighbor was screaming. It wasn’t pretty.

“I worry about him,” Hera mumbled as Hilbert went quiet. “Do you think he was fired again?”

“Yeah,” Eiffel responded. He paused awkwardly. “You go on your date; I’ll make sure he’s alright.”

“You sure?” She looked back at the wall again. Hera tried not to judge him- he was Russian, not evil, after all, and she had faced racial discrimination herself, but he still made her a little uneasy.

“Yeah,” Eiffel insisted. “He’s harmless once you get to know him.” Hera raised an eyebrow.

“You know him?” she inquired.

“Nah,” he admitted. “But I was planning on it. Sometime.” He glanced up at the ceiling, unwilling to meet Hera’s analytic gaze. “I’m sure he’s harmless. You know, deep down. I think. Probably likes ballet or something equally emasculating that his big Russian heart needs to compensate for.” Hera sighed in exhausted resignation.

“Fine,” she mumbled. She made her way to the door before turning on her heels.

“Doug, be careful,” she warned. “I know what you think of him, but to me he seems… volatile. And private. And I don’t want to see you get hurt by someone less considerate than you.”

Eiffel nodded. “Thank you, Hera. I promise I’ll look out for myself, okay?”

“Okay,” she conceded. Eiffel flashed her his dazzling grin.

“Now go forth and have a wonderful time, and tell me all about it when you get back!” he exclaimed. Hera nodded and lifted the corners of her lips in the tiniest fraction of a smile before leaving. Eiffel watched the door for a moment and then turned to pick up the phone. His fingers flew as he dialed the number.

“Hello, yes, I’d like to order a ham and pineapple pizza,” he chimed, scrawling quickly on a sheet of scratch paper. “Yeah, apartment 305 on Sundown and Willow, you know the place?”

 

Eiffel swung his feet at the edge of the bed while he waited for the pizza. His legs were only just long enough to touch the floor when he sat still, but he never sat still, so his feet never seemed to touch the floor.

“Wonder if there’s anything good on the radio,” he mused aloud. His eyes shifted to the clock and he groaned. “Nothing at _this_ hour. Or any hour, really. Good radio shows don’t really exist anymore. I bet I could write one. Twilight Zone meets Outer Limits; basically nothing changes. Twilight Zone meets… Star Trek? Nah, then you’d just have a second Outer Limits. Damn, imagining is hard work.”

He glanced at his books, all piled on top of each other haphazardly.

“Does Doc Hilbert read any of the same books, I wonder?” Eiffel fell back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

“He seems like more of a medical text kind of guy,” he continued. “But I don’t know what kind of person doesn’t like Vonnegut. I bet he’s at least read _Mother Night_. Just obscure enough of a title for a scholarly guy like him, popular enough of an author that it’s not impossible to find.”

Eiffel looked up at the ceiling, sighing impatiently in tune with the knocking door. He bounced to his feet and almost ripped the door off of its hinges.

“Thanks!” He shoved the cash into the delivery boy’s hands and tore the pizza from his hands. Eiffel considered drawing a smiley face on the box to go with the note, but decided against it, opting instead to simply paste the note onto the box.

“Pizza, check,” he mumbled to himself. “Note, check. Give it to Alexander…”

His feet made their way into the hall of their own accord. All that was left for him to do was to offer Hilbert the pizza.

Eiffel stared at the door, his hand raised in an almost-knock. He pulled his hand back slightly, uncertainly. With a sharp inhale as though he was about to go underwater, Eiffel quickly rapped his knuckles against the hard wood. He set the pizza down and ran for his apartment, slamming the door behind him.

He listened. A creaky door opened. Paused. Opened a little more. Feet shuffled slowly and cautiously. Paused. A sound like someone letting out a breath they had been holding for too long- was that Hilbert or Eiffel?

And, just like that, Eiffel could hear the door shutting and felt his heart slow down.

“Operation Feed Doctor Hilbert complete!” He cheered. His own stomach growled obnoxiously. He checked his wallet, which was mostly empty (with the exception of a stick of gum that seemed mildly hairy). The last of his money went to that pizza.

Sometimes, his own idiocy astounded him.

**Author's Note:**

> Specific Chapter Warnings: Hilbert is fired from his job because he is Russian and has family in the Soviet Union.


End file.
